Through the morning mist, the skeletal frames of half-burned buildings stood like shadows in a row. The rubble district of Verdia's eastern quarter—the royal capital. And there, Leovild was. Black hair cut short, deep brown eyes. At 178 centimeters tall, his slender but disciplined frame was wrapped in the repaired black and silver knight's armor of Falkenerde. On his left wrist, a strange magical seal floated into view—the mark of a blood contract. "Yo, Leo. Over here." A fellow knight called out, pickaxe in hand. Leovild wiped the sweat from his brow and walked toward the collapsed stone wall. Morning work. Debris removal. The daily labor of the royal capital's reconstruction. This work was simple. No need to think. Just move your hands. Clear away broken things. Organize the burned-out remains. Reclaim, bit by bit, the city reduced to ash by the Hundred Years' War. That was Leovild's mission. "Heavy?" It was Gard, an older knight. He watched Leovild's movements while shouldering his pickaxe. "No, I'm fine." As he answered, Leovild lifted a stone block. That was when it happened. —A sharp twinge. A dull pain shot through his chest. It was faint. Barely registering as pain—more like a vague discomfort. Yet it struck Leovild's entire body like a jolt of electricity. "..." He stopped. Lowered the stone block to the ground. (What was that?) He placed a hand on his chest. His heart beat normally. Was he unwell? No. This was— He'd woken from the same pain last night. The image from his dream was burned into his eyelids. Golden eyes. Just that. Just that alone—and yet that gaze was filled with hatred. Some anger, regret, and complex emotions layered within those golden eyes. Who was that man? "Leo, you alright?" Gard called out. Leovild shook his head. "I'm fine. Let's continue." He returned to clearing the stone wall. But the discomfort in his chest didn't fade. It smoldered in the depths of his being throughout the work. — Midday. Torka Square. This place, once bustling as a blue-sky market before the war, remained crowded with people even after the conflict. About sixty stalls lined the square, and reconstruction workers came to eat and take breaks from their labor. "Welcome, young Leo." Leovild stopped in front of the butcher stall "Helge's Skewers." The proprietor was Helge Moot—a widow in her fifties. She'd lost her husband to the war, yet still greeted customers with a warm smile every day. "One skewer, please." "Here you go. Your complexion looks poor again today. Are you carrying something heavy?" Helge asked, her brow furrowed with concern as she skillfully grilled the meat. Her eyes held a maternal gentleness. "I'm fine. I've just been a bit tired lately." "If you're tired, you need to rest properly. Don't push yourself too hard." As she spoke, Helge handed him the skewer. The meat, charred at the edges, released a savory aroma. Leovild accepted it and paid with copper coins. "Thank you." "What are you saying? Your body is what matters. Work is important, but if your body breaks down, it's all meaningless." Helge's words carried weight. With so many war orphans around, this woman had continued supporting countless people. Her smile held both hardship and kindness woven together. After finishing his meal, Leovild sat on the stone steps of the square. From there, he could see the royal capital's landscape. Half-burned buildings, streets under repair, and beyond them—the eastern sky. Leovild's gaze drifted upward in that direction. In that war, he'd lost many comrades. The Hundred Years' War with the Soleas Principality. 104 years of long conflict. His own nation—the Kingdom of Trevinas—had won. Soleas had surrendered. And yet. (Why?) There was something strange in the emotions directed toward the enemy nation. Hatred. It still existed, certainly. The memory of comrades who'd died on the same battlefield. He couldn't let their deaths be meaningless. That feeling remained deep in his chest. But at the same time— Relief? No. Something else. A complex, wordless emotion that seemed to flow in from the eastern direction— "Something on your mind?" Helge had sat down beside him without his noticing. "No. Nothing at all." "I see. But you know, young Leo, you look like you're carrying something heavy all by yourself. It's not good to hold it in alone." Those words weren't comforting to hear. But they weren't lies either. "...Thank you." "Take care of yourself." With that, Helge returned to her stall. — The afternoon reconstruction site. Leovild worked alone, organizing debris. Swinging the pickaxe. Carrying stones. The same motions, over and over. The work was monotonous. His mind was barely needed. Only his body moved. So his heart was somewhere else entirely. Golden eyes. Last night's dream. They surfaced again and again. The emotion hidden in the depths of that gaze. Leovild couldn't understand what it was. (They're the enemy.) He told himself. They're the enemy. From the enemy nation. Someone to be hated. (And yet, why—) That was when it happened. —A crushing sensation. Suddenly, a violent pain seized his chest as if it were being crushed. "—Ugh!" Leovild cried out. The pickaxe fell from his hands. His vision warped. His breathing grew shallow, his heart pounding wildly. He fell to his knees on the rubble. Those around him panicked. Someone rushed toward him. "Leo! What's wrong!" Gard's voice. But it sounded distant. His entire body screamed. Something. It felt like something was eroding him from the inside. "Water! Bring water!" Then— "There you are!" Helge. The fifty-year-old woman came running from somewhere and knelt beside Leovild. "Leo! Stay with me!" Warm hands steadied his shoulders. Water was brought to his lips. Gradually, the violent pain receded like a lie. His breathing returned. His vision cleared. Leovild slowly came back to reality. "...Are you alright?" Helge asked. Leovild nodded. "I'm fine. I'm sorry for the trouble." But inside, he knew otherwise. (What is this?) The pain had vanished. But its traces remained vivid. Cold sweat beaded on his forehead. This wasn't illness. Something—something else was happening inside his body. The golden eyes from his dream. This pain. There was a connection between them. Of that much, he was certain. — Evening. Falkenerde Knight Order Headquarters. The Falkenerde administrative building was a three-story stone structure, a converted former noble mansion. Commander Valter's office was on the third floor. The barracks occupied the first floor and basement. And—in the basement, there were holding cells. Leovild returned to his room. A private chamber on the second floor. From the window, he could see the reconstructing royal capital. Half-burned buildings, streets under repair. Illuminated by the setting sun, they glowed golden. He lay down on his simple bed. Placing a hand on his chest, his heart's rhythm was normal. No pain. Nothing abnormal. And yet. (Why?) What had that pain been? What were those golden eyes? A dream? An illusion? Or— He looked out the window at the setting sun. Beyond it. Toward the east. That was Soleas Principality territory. The defeated nation. The surrendered enemy. In recent years, Leovild had lost many people. On the battlefield. In explosions. Clinging to the corpses of comrades, he'd screamed again and again. Hatred. It was justified. And yet, why. When he looked at that eastern sky, why did a different emotion flow into his chest? He remembered Helge's warm hands. Her words. "It's not good to hold it in alone." Thanks to her, his heart had calmed slightly. "Tomorrow, I'll just do what needs to be done." He murmured this and closed his eyes. But. Behind his eyelids, those golden eyes appeared again. Whose eyes were they? Leovild didn't know yet. He didn't know that they belonged to the imprisoned prince of the enemy nation—Sorael El Soleas—held in the basement dungeon. He didn't know that he and that prince were bound by a forbidden blood contract. He knew nothing. Only the pain in his chest quietly told him the truth. The night enveloped the royal capital in silence. Leovild fell asleep, consumed by unease.